


Save the Last Dance for Me

by samyazaz



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dancing, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/pseuds/samyazaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire dances with all the Amis, but he never dances with Enjolras. Once Enjolras notices, he can't stop wondering why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save the Last Dance for Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [kinkmeme prompt](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13775.html?thread=11404751#t11404751):
> 
> Grantaire slow-dancing with Enjolras in their cluttered living room and constantly bumping into piles of books and laughing into Enjolras’s shoulder.

Enjolras only realizes what's happening by slow degrees.

It starts when Éponine returns from a week-long trip across the state with Gavroche, to take advantage of his summer vacation and get them both out of the house and away from their parents for a bit. Her timing is as impeccable as always, and she walks in just as they're all settling down in the back room of the _Musain_ for their weekly meeting. Any hope they might have had of coming to order on time is shattered when she throws the door open, drops her duffel onto the ground, and declares, "All right, folks, time to tell me how much you all missed me."

Grantaire's in the back of the room, as usual, but he makes it to Éponine first, sweeping her up with a delighted cry. Her laughter is bright as the sun and she grabs onto him in return, and what looked like it was just going to be an embrace turns into something else entirely as Grantaire spins her about the room.

Enjolras finds himself frowning in thought as he watches them. He wouldn't have wagered that Grantaire was sober enough to keep his feet beneath him, much less possessed of such easy coordination. When Grantaire releases Éponine with a noisy kiss on her cheek, he looks up and his gaze inevitably goes straight to Enjolras. He falters, some of the delight on his face fading, and his brilliant grin slips toward something that's a little darker, a little more rueful, a little sharper-edged. "All right, all right. Don't have an apoplexy, we'll get back to business now that we've got that out of our systems." He drops back down into his chair and pulls Éponine down to the one beside him.

Enjolras means to protest that he wasn't having an apoplexy at all, and Grantaire has mistaken him. But the others settle down with brief welcome-homes murmured to Éponine as they make their way back to their own chairs, and Enjolras supposes that he may as well take advantage of the situation while he still could. He clears his throat and calls the meeting to order, and resolutely does not spend the rest of the meeting obsessing over the way Grantaire's and Éponine's smiles had lit up their faces as they'd whirled around the room.

#

A week later, they're all crowded around a single table in the _Musain_ , Combeferre's tablet propped in front of them as they watch the streaming footage on CSPAN. They've worked for this for months — for longer — and when the votes are counted there isn't even a chance to hear the official announcement because a scream goes up amongst them as they realize what the numbers mean, as they realize that the bill passed, that they _succeeded_.

Joly throws his arms around Musichetta and Bossuet together, Éponine scoops up Gavroche with a million-watt grin, Cosette and Marius celebrate with a victory kiss, Combeferre clasps Enjolras's shoulder and gives him a satisfied smile as though to congratulate him for the victory, but Enjolras isn't paying attention to him because beyond all of them, Grantaire has taken hold of Bahorel, one of Grantaire's hands clasping his and the other on the small of Bahorel's back, and they're sambaing through the room and around the clutter of tables and chairs with a practiced ease that makes it hard to believe they haven't done this before. Enjolras is distracted by the question of how it is that he's never seen them do it before, and why no one else in the group seems surprised by it.

Combeferre is saying something. Enjolras has to make an effort to draw is attention back and hear what it is he's saying. It sounds like congratulations, and like speculation about all the work they'll need to do now, to keep up the momentum of their victory. Enjolras nods and pulls him to one of the abandoned tables to start planning and making lists while the others celebrate around them. They deserve their victory, but he's all too aware that this is just the first step down a much longer road.

#

It's positively distracting. Now that he's noticed it, he can't stop, and these little moments of Grantaire dancing seem to crop up everywhere. He does the cha-cha with Jehan to cheer him up one day when he's spent the whole meeting looking grumpy and miserable, he draws Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta into a country dance, he does the Charleston with Marius until Cosette wheezes with laughter, then sweeps her into a swirling waltz. Feuilly gets a tango and he swing dances with Courfeyrac until they've spun each other so many times that they're dizzy wit it, and he even does the foxtrot with Combeferre. He dances with everybody like it's a necessity, as though he can't just keep his enthusiasm contained, but he never once turns to Enjolras to pull him into it.

It's not that Enjolras _wants_ to dance, and he'd chalk it up to Grantaire recognizing that and turning to more willing partners, if it weren't for the way that Combeferre always protests for the first half a dozen steps and Feuilly always groans when Grantaire reaches out to him and pulls him up out of his seat. Their reluctance proves little deterrent to Grantaire, but he still shows no interest at all in seeking Enjolras out as a dance partner.

Grantaire has never made any attempt to hide how he feels about Enjolras. He's never hesitate to sneer and tell Enjolras all the reasons he's wrong about everything he believes in and fights for. Enjolras supposes that's explanation enough — the rest of their friends believe as Enjolras does, and joins him in his fights, but they're not the ones standing in front of everyone preaching the cause. Enjolras has made himself the leader of their fight, and taken the brunt of Grantaire's disdain along with it. If Grantaire dances with the others and not with him, it's because he considers the others his friends, and Enjolras only his opposition.

#

Enjolras considers the matter resolved, and determines to think no more of it. But he can't help but notice, every time Grantaire and the others dance. And even though he already knows the answer, he can't help but wonder.

When Grantaire misses two meetings at the _Musain_ in a row, Enjolras can't help but scowl and wonder further. It's not uncommon for Grantaire to miss a meeting -- he's unreliable at the best of times -- but twice in a row is practically unheard of.

"Do you think he's sick?" Joly asks, his brow wrinkled with concern.

Enjolras flinches at the thought. But it seems unlikely that Grantaire would be unwell and not reach out to at least one of them for pity or an emergency run to the store for chicken soup.

He finds himself knocking on the door of Grantaire's apartment two days before the next meeting, unaware of having made the decision to come but now that he's there and there are sounds of movement on the other side of the door, there's no backing down. He waits, his arms crossed over his chest, until there's the sound of muffled swearing from the other side of the door, and then the rasp of the lock. The door swings open and Grantaire is there, his brow creased. His frown only deepens when he sees Enjolras standing there. "Apollo?" He looks bewildered, then brushes it off, shaking his head and shifting toward wry as he he turns and walks into the apartment, without an invitation but leaving the door open and speaking back over his shoulder, "To what do I owe this honor?"

Enjolras follows him inside. He's never been inside Grantaire's apartment before, but he's unsurprised to find that it's cluttered and cozy. There are piles of books on the floor, on end tables, on the arms of chairs. There's a collection of half-finished cups of coffee on a placemat on the corner of the coffee table, a tangled pile of blankets taking over half of the couch, shoes and socks left just inside the doorway like Grantaire walked right out of them as soon as he got home. There are half-used watercolors forgotten beneath the coffee table, oil paints and brushes jutting up out of a glass like an unconventional bouquet, charcoals and a sketchbook propped up against one of the piles of books. Every inch of the place looks like a glimpse inside Grantaire's mind, and Enjolras's lips twitch as he takes it all in.

"Don't mind the mess," Grantaire calls from the kitchen over the sound of running water. "I wasn't expecting company."

Enjolras's head snaps around toward him, a scowl settling into place across his face. His purpose in coming here was to make sure Grantaire meant to come to the next meeting, and maybe a little bit to make sure that he was okay, but Grantaire's words bring a different concern to the forefront. He stalks into the kitchen and finds Grantaire filling the sink with soap and water like he thinks maybe the mound of bubbles will obscure the fact that he doesn't seem to have done dishes in the better part of a week.

Even now he's dancing, his feet tapping out a rhythm, his hips swaying with it like there's music inside him he just can't help but let loose. But even still, he makes no move to sweep Enjolras into it, though Enjolras has no doubt that if one of the others were there Grantaire wouldn't be dancing solo.

"Grantaire," he says, and then catches himself and changes it to, "R," because calling him by his full name like an angry parent is certainly not going to help the matter. "Are you under the impression that we aren't friends?"

Grantaire spins around, his eyes wide, seemingly heedless to the fact that his hands are dripping water and soap all over the faded linoleum. _"What?"_ There's shocked laughter in his voice. "You came here to ask me that?"

He didn't, but he just crosses his arms over his chest again and frowns. _"Are_ you?"

"Christ, Apollo." He wipes a hand over his face and only then seems to notice that his hands are wet. "Are we? Honestly?"

And Enjolras wants to rage, wants to explode with it, but he holds himself back because if Grantaire has gotten the wrong impression it's as much Enjolras's fault as anyone else's. Still, his voice is clipped and unhappy when he answers, "I have always considered you to be."

"Oh Jesus." Grantaire sighs and shifts back, leaning his hips against the edge of the counter. "Seriously? Because I'm pretty sure I'm just a thorn in your side you tolerate out of some latent masochistic streak, and the way you're scowling at me right now is not doing anyting to help that impression."

Enjolras draws himself up sharply, surprised by how much the accusation stings. "You are not a thorn in my side."

"Sure." Grantaire looks confused and dubious. "Okay." He dries his hand on a towel, leaves it tossed on the counter, and pushes past Enjolras back out to the living room.

Enjolras stalks after him. "You are a voice of opposition and dissent, but if that's all it took to get under my skin this would be a poor choice of avocation indeed. All I ever face outside of the _Musain_ is opposition and dissent. It doesn't anger me, and getting it from you gives me the opportunity I need to strengthen my arguments and consider things that hadn't occurred to me. You're an asset, R, not a thorn."

Grantaire stops in the middle of his living room, his back still turned to Enjolras. He makes a low sound and a helpless gesture. "Jesus." He sounds a little broken, and Enjolras can't figure out why this is something that would make him sad. He turns around and stares at Enjolras like he can't make sense of him. "What brought all this up? What is this about?"

It's been festering inside of Enjolras for weeks, now, and he can't keep it contained any longer. "You dance with everyone," he blurts out, and Grantaire looks as surprised by it as he feels. "All of our friends -- all of _your_ friends. You dance with all of them but not with me and I thought... I feared it meant you didn't consider us friends. And I was right, it seems."

Grantaire stares at him, unblinking, for a long moment. "You don't dance," he says at last. "You don't like to."

And that just makes Enjolras scowl, because it's an _excuse_. "Neither do Combeferre or Feuilly, but you dance with them all the same."

"They're rather more tolerant of me irritating them than you are. _Enjolras._ " He gives a disbelieving laugh and shakes his head. "Are you saying you want to dance with me?"

"I-- _No._ " But that's makes Grantaire frown, so it's clearly the wrong answer. "Not if you don't want to, I mean. You don't have to dance with me just to prove something. I don't care about the dancing, I care that you believe we're friends and I--"

"I want to dance with you," Grantaire says abruptly, quietly, and Enjolras breaks off and blinks at him. "I'd love to dance with you. It's just--" He laughs softly and rubs his hand over his face. He's _blushing_ , and it's fascinating. "It's not exactly the sort of dancing I want to do with the others."

"Dance with me." Enjolras doesn't even know where that came from, but it makes Grantaire go still, his eyes cautious and hopeful, so it seems like the right thing to have said. "I want to."

A slight smile pulls at Grantaire's mouth. He steps back and Enjolras thinks for a moment that he said the wrong thing after all. But Grantaire just moves to grab his phone from where it's working on getting lost in the couch cushions, and drops it into the dock of a speaker system. He taps the screen a few times and music fills the small apartment. It's something slow and jazzy, and Enjolras lifts a brow in surprise before Grantaire is back before him, sidling in close and watching Enjolras's face intently. "Is... Is this all right?"

Enjolras lets out his breath and gives a short nod. Grantaire settles his hands on Enjolras's waist and draws him in slowly, gently, until they're standing so close they're brushing against each other. Grantaire sways with the music, and his hands on Enjolras's waist guides him into it until they're swaying together, Enjolras's hands hovering awkwardly over Grantaire's arms because he doesn't know where to put them. Grantaire dances easily, like he was born to it, but Enjolras feels like he's got two left feet and no coordination to speak of.

Grantaire lets out a breath and turns his face aside. "Look, dancing's supposed to be fun. You don't have anything to prove, so if you're not enjoying it--"

"No." Enjolras closes his hands around Grantaire's arms. He doesn't think he's doing this right, but he does know his own mind. "I am. I _am."_

Grantaire's lips curve in a crooked smile. "Are you sure? You might try relaxing, then. You're all tense, like you think I'm going to bite you while your guard's down or something."

Enjolras scowls. "I don't think you're going to bite me."

"Okay." Grantaire's smile spreads, warms. "Try this." He nudges Enjolras's hands up, off is arms to settle on his shoulders, thumbs brushing against the hollow of his throat. It's better already, and Grantaire must think so too, because he tightens his hands on Enjolras's waist and guides him into shuffling steps that send them into a slow spin throughout the room.

He doesn't have Grantaire's grace. Enjolras is good with his voice, with his words, not his body. He makes it three steps before he steps on Grantaire's foot and fumbles. He'd trip if Grantaire didn't adjust the tempo easily to compensate for it, but even so, his elbow raps against one of Grantaire's piles of books and knocks it over. He draws back, swearing, but Grantaire holds on to him. "It's all right, Apollo." He tucks his chin over Enjolras's shoulder and keeps him close, keeps him dancing. "They're books. They're not going to break."

They knock over three more piles of books and the glass of oil paints and brushes, and Grantaire just presses his face against Enjolras's shoulder and laughs quietly into his shirt.

"Come on." He fits his palms to Enjolras's hips and guides him around and out of the living room, into the kitchen in a move so easy it feels choreographed. "There." His lips curve against Enjolras's neck. "You were going to end up black and blue at the rate you were going if we'd stayed out there. A little less hazardous in here, I think."

Enjolras hums wordless acknowledgment, distracted by the feel of Grantaire's mouth on his skin, his hands on his waist, his feet sliding between Enjolras's, his breath ruffling through his hair.

They spin slow circles through the kitchen as the music plays on from the living room, until Enjolras comes up with his back against the counter and Grantaire pressing in close in front of him. His breath catches in his throat, but Grantaire just stands there, his face against Enjolras's throat and his thumbs rubbing circles over his hips. A long moment passes where Enjolras doesn't dare move.

Finally, Grantaire clears his throat and lifts his head. "Anyway. There you go. No more need to feel left out, okay?"

It's a question and Enjolras knows he's meant to answer, but Grantaire is near and warm and looking up at him from so close and Enjolras leans in and catches Grantaire's mouth with his before he's even recognized the thought.

Grantaire squeaks against his mouth and his hands go still on Enjolras's hips. He leans in, his hands coming up to frame Enjolras's face, and in this at last Enjolras doesn't have to wonder what to do with himself. This is easy, as easy as Grantaire's dancing. The hand towel on the counter is soaking into his shirt and getting his back wet and none of it matters as he coaxes Grantaire's mouth open and kisses him because this, at last, feels right.

When they part, Grantaire clears his throat and leans his forehead against Enjolras's shoulder and breathes unsteadily for a moment. "…Okay," he says at last, and he sounds dazed. "Um."

Enjolras leans their foreheads together and holds on to him. "That was not the kind of dance I was expecting."

Grantaire laughs. It starts out a little hysterical, but then he just wraps his arms around Enjolras and laughs and laughs. "No. Me either," he says, and pulls Enjolras down for another kiss.


End file.
